


higher ground

by darkoceanbottom



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kevin Day-centric, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29482377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkoceanbottom/pseuds/darkoceanbottom
Summary: Kevin Day and identity.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	higher ground

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Leave My Body" by Florence + the Machine ~
> 
> _I'm gonna leave my body (Moving up to higher ground)_   
>  _I'm gonna lose my mind (History keeps pulling me down)_

Kevin Day is the son of Kayleigh Day.

From a very young age, Kevin knows that this means something. Everyone adores his mom: her friends at the big shiny court, the men on the sports TV channel, random people on the street who come up to them with a pen and cry when she doodles on a piece of paper. There are magazines in the living room with her face on them, and sometimes she shows up on the TV. Occasionally, she puts on a sparkly dress and makes Kevin wear an uncomfortable suit and they go to eat dinner in a really big room with lots of people in sparkly dresses and uncomfortable suits and she goes up on stage to talk and everyone claps a lot.

He only knows a handful of other children, but sometimes they say things like _I wish I was the son of Kayleigh Day_. And, well, Kevin feels pretty special about it.

The title is one that Kevin carries with pride, because he knows it’s something to be proud of, but it’s mostly just words.

The reality of being Kayleigh Day’s son is watching Exy games together on the giant TV in their living room while wrapped up in snuggies. It’s helping her mix lots of vegetables in a big bowl to make a healthy lunch so they can both be strong. It’s having a huge, empty court to themselves at night while he learns to swing his tiny racquet. It’s warm hugs and storytime before bed and dancing around the house and missing her when she’s gone and sometimes being sad but mostly being very, very happy.

+

“Okay, Kevin,” says his mom, face very serious. “Are you ready?”

He looks down at his feet, scooches them a little further apart. Straightens his back, bends his knees just a little, sets his shoulders. Fixes his hand position on the racquet, still a little odd since the recent switch from right to left now that he’s started school and learned he prefers to write left-handed. Squeezes the ball in his right hand.

“I’m ready,” he says.

She swings her racquet, at least twice as big as his, and settles into a crouch.

He serves to himself, and swings his racquet as hard as he can, trying to aim for the other end of the goal from where his mom stands. She jumps for the ball, almost swipes it, misses, and the wall lights up red. Kevin drops his racquet in surprise, and his mom gives a big gasp, and yells, “You scored!!! Good job!!” before scooping him up to bounce around in celebration.

Kevin laughs, elated, and they cheer until long after the goal loses its color.

She sets him down, kneels in front of him, helps him remove his helmet, and runs fingers through his messy hair.

“Great job, Kevin. You’ll be playing on my team in no time,” she says, beaming proudly.

He grins, asks if they can play more.

“Oh, child, I don’t think so,” she says, glancing at her watch, “It is already way past your bedtime—”

Kevin starts to complain, but she continues, “— _but_ I promise we’ll play again tomorrow night. And then every night we can, just you and me, okay?”

His mom offers a pinky, and Kevin hooks his to it for a solemn pinky promise.

“Alright, bud,” she says, standing up with a kiss on his forehead, “Let’s get this place cleaned up and get you to bed. You can’t be an Exy star if you don’t get good sleep, you know.”

Eyes wide, Kevin scrambles to help her pick up cones.

+

When he’s seven years old, Kevin stops being the son of Kayleigh Day.

There’s a car accident and a hospital and then a handful of months he doesn’t remember much of beyond too many people and too much black and nonstop tears. When he emerges on the other end, Kevin is alone.

Well, not _alone_ alone.

Now he lives with Mr. Moriyama, who he’s met plenty of times before. Riko, who Kevin has met almost as many times as Mr. Moriyama, lives with them too. And that’s nice, because Riko is Kevin’s age and also really, really likes Exy and they always have fun together.

The two of them spend most of their time on a court near the house, and it’s not Kayleigh Day’s court, but it looks pretty similar and Kevin likes that. He and Riko get fitted for black jerseys, lettered with _Day 02_ and _Moriyama 01_ on the back in dark red. They get new racquets (black), and new gloves (black), and new padding (black), and new cleats (black), and new helmets (black). Kevin’s still sick of the color, but it was very nice of Mr. Moriyama to buy him these things so he’s not going to complain.

He dresses in black every morning and tries not to miss the gentle green of his mom’s uniform.

+

Kevin doesn’t go back to school.

Instead, Mr. Moriyama brings in tutors and Kevin and Riko spend an hour every day with each subject. Riko likes science best, learning about desert ecosystems and basics of the water cycle from a very excitable Mr. Jones.

Kevin prefers history, where Ms. Thompson mostly tells them about what the United States used to be like, but sometimes gets off track and they learn that Ancient Egyptians thought cats were sacred and that kites were invented in Ancient China. Kevin asks question after question about the people that she says existed so long ago, but after a few minutes, she always guides them back to learning about the Civil War or the Roaring 20s, which are much less interesting.

They spend a few hours every day with Mr. Shimizu for Japanese ( _Nihongo_ ) lessons, where Riko practices and Kevin tries to catch up. He learns _Konnichiwa_ , Hello.

Every day there are new nouns and verbs and adjectives and learning to shape his mouth to make sounds that aren’t quite English. Mr. Shimizu tuts when Kevin can’t quite tell the difference between two sounds and says, _Kiite kudasai_ , Listen!

At the beginning, Kevin says a lot of _Wakarimasen_ , I don’t understand, and _Shirimasen_ , I don’t know, but as the weeks turn to months, he and Riko use almost more _Nihongo_ than English.

They start every day with _Ohayou gozaimasu_ , Good morning.

On the way to the kitchen, Riko complains _Harapeko_ , I’m hungry, and when the Cook sets out yogurt and fruit and granola, Kevin solemnly says _Oishii-sou_ , Looks delicious. They play at critiquing each meal, with _Amai_ , Sweet; _Karai_ , Spicy; _Mazui_ , Awful.

Only Mr. Shimizu speaks any Japanese, so they spend their other lessons giggling over jokes their tutors can’t understand. Kevin’s favorite for a solid two months is _Panda wan ani o taberu ka?_ , What do pandas eat? _Panda_ , It’s bread! (Ms. Johnson weathers their interruptions gracefully. Mr. Jones does not.)

After every _Goru_ , Goal, during afternoon practice: _Yoku dekimashita_ , Great job!

Every night, they part ways outside bedroom doors and say, _Oyasuminasai_ , Goodnight.

Slowly, slowly, Kevin settles into his new life, and it’s different and difficult but he thinks that maybe, like before, he can be _Ureshii_ , Happy.

+

Of course, he and Riko spend more time on the court than anywhere else. Mr. Moriyama—the Master, that is—teaches them drills and sometimes brings in older students from the university to help.

Kevin learns quickly to be wary of the Master’s quick temper and eye for perfection. With every lesson, he can feel himself get better, stronger, but it’s tempered by his worry that it’s not good enough and his fear of the Master’s quick cane.

Lessons with the older kids are much more fun. There’s a lot of them, and Kevin doesn’t know all of them by name, but he’s appropriately awed by how tall and muscular and put-together they are in their black and red uniforms. The Master explains that they’re in college ( _old_ ) for Exy, and Kevin can’t imagine anything better.

Drills feel good with so many people to run them with, and the college students are helpful but not scary when Kevin or Riko make a mistake. When they manage to score at scrimmage, everyone cheers them on.

“Just think,” says Number 14 Jason, after Riko scores one day, “When you’re old enough to play on this court, there’ll be people yelling in all those seats out there.”

Kevin and Riko look up obediently at the endless seats around the court, and Kevin imagines cheers for every goal, but louder louder louder louder. He meets Riko’s eyes and he sees his own excitement mirrored there.

“What’s it like?” asks Riko eagerly.

Number 23, who probably has a name but Kevin doesn’t remember, hums in thought then says, “There’s nothing like it.”

“It’s perfect,” adds Number 21 David.

There’s a _thump_ on the court wall that Kevin knows without looking is the Master’s cane, and they resume scrimmage without further comment.

But the conversation sticks, and he can’t stop thinking about it. About being older. About playing on a real team. About being surrounded by people who are happy for him, _because of him_. He pulls on blurry memories of wearing a tiny green jersey emblazoned with _Day 01_ on the back, sat courtside with other family members of his mom’s team, all of them breathless one moment and celebrating wildly the next, flipping on a single, flawless shot by Kayleigh Day, and he imagines himself in her place and it’s—

_Kanpeki_ , Perfect.

+

Kevin is ten years old, and he’s less _Kevin_ and more _one half of RikoandKevin_. He’d never strayed particularly far from Riko since his mother’s death, but with their recent move into a dormitory at the stadium, there’s even less reason for space.

RikoandKevin wake up every morning to the same blaring alarm, brush teeth side-by-side in the bathroom mirror, dress in black, eat their meals, go to tutoring, go to practice, study Exy, and go to bed. They are rarely out of eyesight and almost never out of earshot.

And Kevin feels—happy. Supported. He thinks about when his mother died and he was so afraid to feel so alone and knows that it won’t be like that again. It can’t be, because he has Riko.

Riko, who’s spent his entire life as an unwanted son under the wing of a distant uncle, is equally happy. Older by a handful of months, he starts referring to Kevin as _Otouto_ , Little brother.

The first time he says it on the court, Jason laughs and says they may not be brothers in blood, but certainly in spirit.

“No,” says Riko. “We are true brothers.”

“Technically—” begins Number 23, who is too new to know not to disagree with Riko.

“We don’t need blood. We are brothers in Exy.” Riko continues, as if the other hadn’t spoken at all.

Jason, easygoing as ever, agrees with: “Can’t argue with that! You’d think Exy herself birthed you both, the way you guys play already.”

Riko’s eyes light up. Kevin half feels the same, but the other half feels wrong, discrediting to the fact that a very human person made him and loved him. But that person is gone.

And Kevin knows he isn’t the son of Kayleigh Day, not anymore, but he can have this. He _is_ this.

_Exy no musuko_. Son of Exy.

+

The title catches on. By fourteen, Kevin rarely sees his own name in the news without “Son of Exy” attached to it. Occasionally, he’s “Son of the late Kayleigh Day.”

Riko is only, and always, named a “Son of Exy.”

+

At their age, Riko and Kevin play in the most competitive teen Exy league in the country. They’re levels above every other player on the court, and despite their age, ESPN takes note.

“In minor-league news, Riko Moriyama, the so-called Son of Exy, turned sixteen today,” rattles off an anchor during halftime of the Eagles-Penguins game. Next to him, Kevin sees Riko’s chin tilt up, attention sharp on the TV.

“As the most impressive young Exy players in the country, we’re all waiting rather impatiently for he and Kevin Day to start their college Exy careers at Edgar Allen,” says the co-host.

“They’re certainly doing phenomenally at the youth level, but—”

“ _But_ , college is a big step up from that. Professional Exy even higher. There’s a lot of pressure for these kids to be the best, but let’s be honest, it’s just too early to tell.”

“Well, we certainly expect greatness from Kevin Day, given his DNA.”

“Sure, but a talented parent doesn’t guarantee a talented kid. Even less a talented uncle.”

Riko’s face sets into stone. A firm press to the remote, and the screen goes black. He stands, then heads to the door, beckoning Kevin and Jean behind him, “The court. Let’s go.”

Jean follows smoothly.

“The game,” says Kevin, scanning over his meticulous notes from the first half. “I wanted to get a better look at—”

“No. Kevin, we should take this time to practice. Watch that trash later if you need, but I know what’s best for us. Let’s go. Now.”

They go.

+

Kevin’s sixteenth birthday falls in the middle of a trip to Japan.

They’ve spent the last week touring a mix of youth and professional Exy stadiums, meeting players and fans alike. It’s exhausting, but Kevin genuinely enjoys it. He talks to every player he can, at length, about their stadiums, their practices, their drills, their diets, their lives. Kevin is well aware that his own habits and routines are fully idealized for his career, but is still intrigued by the variation he hears.

Well, he’s horrified by the player who raves about McDonald’s, but otherwise intrigued.

When they’re not touring, they’re doing interviews. Kevin thinks they’ve done over twenty by now, for TV and radio and magazines and newspapers.

Both of them have had their fair share of media training at this point, but Riko actually enjoys the spotlight in a way that Kevin doesn’t, so he does most of the talking. _Riko desu_ , I’m Riko, he tells each new face, _Otouto no Kevin desu_ , This is my brother, Kevin.

The audiences love them.

On the day of his birthday, they have a live interview in Kyoto in the morning, where the host presents Kevin with a cake for the occasion. It’s a small kindness, and Kevin wonders when he last had birthday cake.

After, a handful of paparazzi follow them through a long day of tourism around the area.

They wander through gardens, which Kevin appreciates for the chance to stretch his legs, sit through a traditional tea ceremony, then visit a bamboo forest. Riko gazes pensively at the trees, before asking Kevin’s opinion on bamboo racquets.

Later, they visit the Tō-ji temple, and Kevin is taken with the amount of history there. The tour guide tells them that it’s stood for over a thousand years, once holding incredible historical documents.

He’s staring up at five stories of history when Riko appears beside him, holding out a black camera bag.

Kevin takes it from him, opening the zipper and peeking in at a very fancy camera. He feels his brows crinkle as he asks, “What?”

“Your birthday,” Riko says smoothly. “You enjoy these historical things. I thought you might want to document it.”

It’s—thoughtful. Moreso than Kevin had come to expect from Riko in recent years, as the pressure of their lives compounded over and over and hardened them both. This thoughtfulness is a callback to the Riko he knew as a child, who would give Kevin his favorite fruits at lunch and once helped their Cook bake a carrot cake because Kevin wanted to try it. 

Kevin lifts the camera from the bag, fiddles with the settings, then snaps a picture of the beautiful building in front of them.

“Thank you,” Kevin says quietly, feeling the corners of his mouth tilt up.

Riko smiles back, small but genuine. “You’re welcome.”

+

Their first game as Ravens is brutal, if only for the pressure.

By unspoken agreement, Riko and Kevin spend every possible hour of the two weeks before on court. When others are there, they scrimmage. When they’re alone, they run every drill they’ve ever done. It doesn’t feel like enough.

Every person who has ever heard of Exy knows that its sons are playing their first NCAA game tonight. All the sports anchors on all six channels Kevin keeps tabs on have extensive thoughts on how they’re going to do. The regular news anchors have mentioned lucrative bets being placed, both for and against their performance.

For their part, both Kevin and Riko know that they’ll win the game.

But that’s not enough. As the sons of Exy, if they don’t have the uncontested best performance on the court, it won’t be enough.

When the announcer reads “Starting striker, number two, Kevin Day!” he steps foot on the court to join Riko and something settles in him. The two nod at each other, wait patiently for their teammates and ignore heckles from the other team.

They have the uncontested best performance. As expected, they slaughter the Sharks, 17-2.

Kevin nets six goals and assists every one of Riko’s seven.

After, he and Riko talk to the press. The first to be called, a woman Kevin vaguely recognizes as being from _Sports Illustrated_ , says, “Can you comment on your success today? Many are already saying that you’ve proven your titles as “Sons of Exy” and looking forward to lifelong careers.”

Riko raises one eyebrow, almost disbelieving, and says, “Neither Kevin nor I are surprised by our success today. Our _titles_ are not in need of the media’s approval—” a quick smile to soften a hard comment, “—but I hope we can now put to rest any rumors that they are undeserved.”

The next reporter directs his question at Kevin, asking, “Your mother, Kayleigh Day, who invented Exy, unfortunately couldn’t be here for your collegiate Exy debut. How do you think she would have reacted?”

Kevin blinks, somehow not expecting this line of questioning. He probably should have.

“I think,” he starts slowly. “That she would have been pleased. She was an incredible player, and she would have been happy to see me reach the NCAA level of her sport.”

Riko smoothly takes over, “It is unfortunate that Kayleigh Day is not here, and we mourn her absence. We are lucky enough to have my uncle, Tetsuji Moriyama, the co-inventor of our beloved sport, as our coach. I imagine that Kayleigh would react with as much happiness as my uncle to see Kevin and I reach this milestone.”

Kevin breathes slowly, feels his chest expand, the padding pressing into bruises on his chest that _the co-inventor of our beloved sport_ had given him earlier in the week. Presses his leg into the chair, to feel the places where Riko had accidentally caught him with his racquet.

How happy would Kayleigh Day be for him, really?

Another, ballsier, reporter asks, “Do you believe it was genetics that have gotten you this far? Fate?”

“Kevin and I have worked for what we have, but this is our path,” says Riko. “Exy is our birthright.”

+

The first hiccup in their quest for the Perfect Court is Andrew Minyard.

Well, it’s not the first, not really (maybe the _first_ was training that got a little too physical, or the mounting pressure, the lack of space, the addition of Jean Moreau with his quiet French and easily-bruised skin, or maybe it was a small child whose father brought death to their stadium all those years ago), but it’s the first that Kevin can’t push down and explain away.

Andrew Minyard is easily the best teenage goalie Kevin’s ever seen, and it is incomprehensible that he doesn’t want to go pro. Or even go to college, _for free_ , to play for the Ravens.

Kevin is furious when they leave Minyard’s high school court, but Riko is worse.

“I will speak to my uncle,” he says, watching the South Carolina scenery fly by in their black rental. “Andrew Minyard will join us next year, whether he wants to or not.”

And Kevin wants that, more than anything, but. But. “I don’t think we can convince him. He said there’s nothing we can offer that he would accept.”

Riko rolls his eyes, dismissive of this. “He doesn’t need to accept. My family can make it happen.”

Kevin goes cold, says numbly, “No.”

“No? If you don’t think me capable of getting Andrew Minyard for us, you underestimate the power of my family.”

Kevin thinks of Jean, of the Master, of the very very questionable business conducted by the Moriyamas, and can’t stomach being responsible for dragging another person into this mess unwillingly.

“I mean I don’t want him,” says Kevin, as calmly as he can while his heart races.

At the next red light, Riko turns to him, still livid, and says, “What do you mean you do not want him? We flew down to this sorry state because _you_ said we had to have him. I am offering you what you told me you wanted.”

Kevin flicks his hand in faux-casual dismissal. “I thought I did want him. But it’s clear now he wouldn’t be a good fit for us. Look at how lazy he is. How unmotivated. We don’t need someone like that on our court.”

Riko, driving again, looks angry but pensive. “Anyone can be broken.”

“Yes,” says Kevin, “but we can do better than Andrew Minyard.”

Riko hums and says nothing else.

Later, after they’ve returned to their court, both bearing new bruises from the Master’s displeasure with their lack of success, Riko says, “You will be more careful with future recruits. Do not fuck this up again.”

Kevin nods. They play.

+

Riko is angry. Riko is usually angry, lately, but today it’s worse.

Kevin’s not sure what set him off originally, but he yells at Kevin and Jean nonstop during their practice time, about their form, their attitudes, their collegiate record, anything else he can think of, and when Kevin, distracted by Jean’s bleeding nose from a too-hard check by Riko, fumbles his steps, Riko snaps.

He shoves Kevin, rips his racquet from his hands, snarls something foul about his _deteriorating skill_.

Kevin’s never had Riko seem quite this angry at him, but he weathers it like he’s weathered all of his brother’s anger through the last few years. He gives small responses, waits for Riko to calm down, to decide practice is over.

He doesn’t, and the next time Kevin hits the ground, Riko’s racquet follows closely behind. Again, and again, and again.

+

Kevin has met David Wymack in passing, usually at the occasional Exy functions that honor his mother. They’ve exchanged a handful of words over a handful of conversations, nothing deeper than compliments on Kevin’s playing and commentary on the current pro standings. Nothing that would warrant Kevin showing up at the man’s hotel room hours before a regional banquet to which Kevin is not invited.

The face Wymack makes when he opens the door suggests he feels the same, but he ushers Kevin inside all the same. Kevin gets three entire steps into the room before his numb legs stop working and he hits the floor. It barely registers. He keeps his left hand, wrapped in a black _Ravens_ scarf, pressed tight to his stomach. It’s been in the same position since he walked out of Evermore four hours ago, and he almost thinks that if he keeps ignoring the pain and pushing down the memory of bones peeking through skin, it won’t be real. It doesn’t feel real. It can’t actually be real.

Wymack swings the door closed—Kevin startles first at the sound, then again at the blood dripping from his face to the carpet—and crouches down. There’s a deep frown setting into his forehead as he asks, “Hey, kid, you alright? What happened?”

Two great questions, the answers to which are: 1. _Clearly fucking not_ and 2. _The only family I have just took my entire life away from me_.

Kevin does not say this out loud. Instead, he musters up what little rationality is left in his buzzing brain and responds to the third, unvoiced, question: _Why are you here?_

He doesn’t say _You’re my father_. He doesn’t say _I have nowhere else to go_.

Instead, he says: “I… you were close with my mother. Help me,” and hopes it’s enough.

+

And that is how Kevin Day, Son of Exy, ends up as assistant coach for the most dysfunctional NCAA Exy team in the country.

It would be funny, if Kevin had anything left resembling a sense of humor.

“Get moving, Hemmick!”

Nicky Hemmick glances up from his phone that has somehow distracted him through the entire water break, and says, “Sir, yes sir!”

Then looks right back down at his phone. Kevin is going to kill him.

Unbothered, Dan gets everyone else back on the court and starts up another drill. Nicky keeps typing.

“ _Now_ , Hemmick!” he calls, lacing irritation into every word. “We’re all waiting on you.”

Nicky glances toward the court, where the team is certainly not waiting on him, and flaps a hand in dismissal. “You’ve been waiting ten seconds, but the love of my life has been waiting _hours_ for an update on my asshole lab partner, so—”

“You’re wasting all of our time. Put the phone away and get moving,” Kevin snaps.

With a dramatic sigh, Nicky puts his phone back in his bag, takes a long gulp of water, and says: “You’re kind of a hardass, Assistant Coach Kevin Day. Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? You seem like you need some stress relief. I know some people. Or I could _be_ some people, if you’re into that.” An eyebrow waggle.

Kevin doesn’t bother to respond to any of that but _does_ inform Nicky that his time would be better spent running drills than running his mouth. He gets three minutes into a verbal teardown of what exactly is wrong with Nicky’s attitude and how it directly impacts his Exy skills before Nicky finishes his water and finally gets himself onto the court, rolling his eyes at Kevin’s ire.

Kevin rolls out his shoulders to relieve some of the tension and redirects his attention to the court. He’s there to fix his father’s team, and that’s what he’s going to do, no matter how much any of them fight him on it.

+

Every night, Kevin lies awake in bed in Abby’s spare room, watching the numbers on the digital clock change. Alone.

He thinks it should be a relief, not feeling Riko’s eyes heavy on him in the dark. He’d spent so many nights in the Nest tense, unable to sleep for the fear of his brother’s growing and unpredictable anger. He should sleep soundly here, alone in a bedroom in Palmetto, behind a locked door inside a locked home where no one inside would hurt him.

He doesn’t.

The room is too warm, too big, too empty. It’s the most space Kevin has had for himself since he was a child.

It’s unbearable.

+

Andrew Minyard lives up to his reputation: violent, tiny, talented in fits and starts, and generally insane. He is also, Kevin had re-discovered within five minutes of their second meeting, extremely irritating.

They’re at practice, and Andrew makes a point of slowly swinging his racquet nowhere near the ball whenever a striker shoots at the goal. At some point, Kevin wonders if he’s trying to put his racquet as far away from the ball as possible, then thinks that’s probably too much effort for him.

At the next break, Kevin storms over and says, “What is the problem?”

“Problem?” asks Andrew, eyes wide, mouth stretched into a smile. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Cut the bullshit. You’re the best player on this court. Why aren’t you actually practicing?”

Andrew pulls a thoughtful face, going as far to stroke at his chin. “Well, if I’m the best player on this court, why would I practice?”

“Your team is terrible,” says Kevin, knowing he’s being baited and unable to stop himself, “But you could be something.”

“No thanks!”

Kevin can’t begin to respond through his ire.

Dan calls the team back to the court. Andrew gazes at Kevin for another moment, vacant grin in place, before slowly pivoting away.

Kevin reaches out to grab his arm, to stop him, to talk some sense into him, to do _something_ —and Andrew grabs his wrist in a vice grip, tutting gently.

“No, no, Kevin Day. Mind your hands. Unless you want this one,” a squeeze to the right wrist in his grip, “to be as useless as the other.”

Kevin swallows, frozen, but says, “You could be something. I can help you _want_ to be something. Just give me your game.”

Andrew hums, and loosens his grip before strolling back onto the court.

Kevin rubs his sore right wrist with his bandaged left hand.

+

His memory of That Night is spotty. He remembers the hotel room, meeting Abby, being on the cold bus, bursts of noise from the Foxes. He remembers Andrew’s face, close to his, eyes glittering but focused.

Later, as an official assistant coach to the Palmetto Foxes, he sees that look again, and Andrew offers him a deal.

He takes it.

+

It's scouting season, and Kevin's hand may be fucked, but his brain isn't.

He’s watched the Foxes enough to know how they function, what their weaknesses are, and what they need in a striker. He doubts any of them—barring his father—hold the same knowledge, so when Wymack starts receiving files for potential recruits, Kevin gets to them before the team can.

He sifts through countless hours of pathetic player files and tapes and comes up with a few options for Wymack. They settle on a lanky striker named Janie Smalls, who apparently fits the Fox qualification of being a troubled child.

Wymack thanks him gruffly for his help, and Kevin thinks that at least he can be useful for this, even if the life he had before is over.

+

He sits in Abby’s office, familiar now with the numerous posters containing medical tips, the collection of gel pens on her desk, the heart-shaped mousepad next to her computer.

She pulls his file folder out of the drawer, flips it open, grabs a purple pen.

“Okay,” she says, “Can you tell me how the pain has been this week? On a scale from one to ten.”

Kevin forces himself through the usual questions and answers. He’s been here for weeks, lost count of how many times they’ve done this exact routine.

Sure, the numbers get lower, Abby seems happier, but. He still can’t play, can he?

“I think,” says Abby gently, hands soft on Kevin’s, “That you could be back on the court in a few months. It won’t be the same, and you’ll have to be careful, but you’re healing well.”

It’s nothing he doesn’t already know.

It’s nothing he wants to hear.

He wants Abby to say, _It’s incredible, you’ll make a full recovery, you’ll be right back where you were in no time_. It’s a foolish, wasteful thought to have, and Kevin dismisses it immediately.

From now on, when people say _The Son of Exy_ , it’ll be in reference to Riko and only Riko.

+

The Foxes get kicked out of semi-finals early. Practices decline to once a day, and the graduating players (none of whom have the talent to go pro) stop attending altogether.

The rest of them continue to show up, but they’re lazy about it. Andrew makes a point of gazing at the sky while his teammates practice shots on goal. Kevin’s standing on the sideline grinding his teeth when Wymack says, “Plenty of room for you out there.”

And that’s—disquieting, for many, many reasons.

“I don’t belong out there with them,” he says, because it’s less rude than _I’m a national champion and it would be humiliating to set foot on a court with these children_ , and Kevin occasionally makes the effort to not be rude to his father.

Wymack does not return the favor, but asks, “Don’t you?”

It’s a sharp reminder that Kevin _was_ a national champion, and now he’s just a bogus assistant coach for a pitiable college team. The thought that his skills are now at or below Fox level has his stomach rolling.

“Abby says my hand is still healing,” he tries.

“Well, you’ve got two hands, don’t you?”

Kevin struggles to suppress the panic rising in his throat. “I’m not one of them,” he manages.

Wymack hums, still watching his team screw around on the court. “You could be,” he says.

Kevin can’t respond, and they let the subject drop.

+

Part of him wonders if Wymack knows why Kevin came to him. If he suspects that the choice was fueled by more than a distant connection with Kayleigh and a chance to be near Andrew.

If he, like Kevin, has ever stared at the mirror, trying to find similarities like a reverse spot-the-difference game with their faces. Because, yes, Kevin’s eyes are green where Wymack’s are brown, and his nose is a carbon copy of Kayleigh’s, and he’s notably paler than Wymack. But their unruly eyebrows make the same slight curve, and their jaws match in squareness, and Kevin’s skin is two shades darker than Kayleigh’s was.

Sometimes, he stares at his reflection and imagines being Kevin Day, son of David Wymack.

Kevin almost hopes that he already knows. It’s a selfish hope, born out of fear and unwillingness to initiate the conversation, but maybe that’s not surprising. Andrew does keep telling him what a coward he is.

+

Two weeks after Wymack first suggested he join the Foxes on court, Kevin can no longer deny the itch under his skin.

Sure, he’s at the gym at least once a day, and spends all his free time at the stadium. But his hands haven’t touched a racquet since he left Evermore. He thinks this is the longest he’s ever gone, and it appears to be his limit.

He stands in front of Andrew at eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night, and says, “Take me to the court.”

Blowing cigarette smoke directly at Kevin instead of out the open window, Andrew says, “Whatever for?”

He fans the air, irritated. “Let’s go, Andrew.”

“Do you miss the big screen in the lounge? Want to sleep on the couch? Check the equipment? What can the court offer you that our dorm can’t, I wonder?”

“I need to practice,” Kevin says. Out loud. Once it’s out, he briefly thinks, _I need to practice, it’s been so long what the fuck was I thinking what have I been doing—_

Andrew stills. Blinks. Puts out his cigarette on the windowsill like a heathen. “Lead the way, Kevin Day.”

+

He stands at half-court, racquet in his right hand. He’s held it like this before, as a child, in scrimmages, for practice, mostly as a joke or a handicap. Never with intent. Never like this.

Kevin picks up a ball from the overfull bag at his feet. Adjusts his grip. Tosses. Swings.

It’s a weak swing. The ball sails far across the court, but it’s nothing like the impact of his left hand. He adjusts his grip. Rethinks the angle. Swings again. And again. And again.

The fifteenth ball that hits the net of his racquet sounds better, not quite good, but _better_. He repeats the movement through ball sixteen, eighteen, twenty-five, thirty-one.

Each one feels better than the last.

His chest is both heavy with the hurt of losing a lifetime of left-handed skill and light with the relief that it’s not over. At age nineteen, his life _isn’t over_. 

Thirty-six.

He thinks about Wymack’s offer of a contract at Palmetto State.

Kevin imagines wearing orange and white instead of red and black. Imagines living without the constant presence of Riko at his shoulder. Imagines playing Exy at night on a court, the same way his mother taught him as a child, the two of them under the stadium lights in green jerseys and plastic racquets, laughing over the sport they both loved.

He serves the last ball, listens to the satisfying _whack_ , watches it reach the far wall with a _thud_ , and imagines being a Fox.

**Author's Note:**

> KEVIN DAY, amirite??
> 
> anyway, this is the first thing i've written in (not joking) thirteen years so please drop a comment if you enjoyed! <3


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